


Survivor's Guilt

by KiraMae



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraMae/pseuds/KiraMae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone who has ever said, "it is better to have loved and lost," has never lost anything that they truly loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor's Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Exploring how even a strong person like Ashley Williams deals with loss. All characters and setting belong to Bioware.

She could still remember the first time he'd looked at her.  _Really_ looked at her.  They'd both been in full armor on Eden Prime, the whole mission had been a lot of running and shooting and rolling behind cover and leaping over obstacles.  It had ended with the prothean beacon exploding and Shepard unconscious and rushing back to his ship, and the marine in pink and white armor just swept along because where else was there for her to go?

And then he'd been in the infirmary, and Anderson was putting orders through to transfer her to the Normandy crew, and she didn't really _know_ anybody on the ship and found herself up late at night commiserating with Alenko, the only other person besides her who'd been ground side.  The only person who could read the burden of guilt she was carrying on her shoulders for what had happened to Shepard.  He might have died.  It was her fault.

She found herself hanging around the infirmary, waiting for him to wake up, wanting to apologize or explain, and halfway wanting him to be angry and blame her so she could yell back and defend herself because the guilt was eating away at her inside and she just wanted to yell at somebody. 

She just so happened to be there when he did wake up.  Anderson and Dr. Chakwas swept her out of the room like so much unnecessary clutter, and she stood awkwardly near the mess and waited to see if he'd come out.

And then he did, and their eyes met, and he blinked and looked almost surprised.  Her heart raced just a little faster because a faint smile was on face as he took her in and she realized he was really seeing her, just then, and she'd never had someone look at her like that before.

Like she was beautiful, and he couldn't quite believe it.

And while she had never thought of herself as unattractive, she had never felt more beautiful than she had in that moment, when he was looking at her.

 

When he went down on the Normandy, she blamed herself.  This time there was no Alenko and no Shepard to tell her there was nothing she could have done.

She wrote letters to him everyday. Sometimes they were apologies, but sometimes they were accusations, how could he just leave her alone like this?  How was she supposed to function when every breath she took was a constant reminder that he'd never breathe again?

Somehow, though, she was still living. She'd never been the lie-down and give-up type, and even if it was just on the surface, she was still going through the motions.  She worked, and she ate, and she slept, she went out with friends and family and laughed at jokes, even if part of her inside was screaming and no one knew it.  She looked in the mirror at her empty eyes and wondered if he were here, would he still think she was beautiful? And every day she wrote another letter, and put it away in her bedside drawer with the rest.

When he came back, she wanted to fold him in her arms and press their bodies together so tightly they'd never be separated again.  There he was, and his eyes were on hers, and suddenly she was beautiful again in a way she hadn't felt since he'd been gone.  But even as her heart swelled up until she thought her chest might burst, she found herself lashing out at him, blaming him.  The only way she could show she cared was to yell at him because she didn't know how else to handle it.  How could someone she loved so much make her feel this way?  It was all wrong, and she couldn't stop herself, not even as she saw his heart breaking on his face, plain as day to anyone who knew that face like she did.

 

She thought about him every day while he was grounded in Vancouver.  She walked past the building she knew he was housed in, but never went inside.  She started emails but never finished them, never sent them.

They saw each other again the day the Reapers hit.  And there was that look.  Those blue eyes.  Drinking her in.  And suddenly she was beautiful again.  She nodded slightly, hoping he could read her mind.  He smiled slightly, and she tried to read his.

With the whole galaxy going to hell, she wasn't about to waste a second chance.  And those months together, waking up cradled in his arms, made her fight so much harder.  This feeling made life worth living, _this_ was what they were fighting for.

She'd lie in bed propped up on one elbow looking down at his beautiful face, counting his eyelashes, tracing his bottom lip with her thumb.  He'd look back at her like she was so precious, like he could never quite believe his luck. When she got too serious, he'd pinch the apple of her cheek until she smiled.  When he got overwhelmed, she'd wriggle into his lap and rain little kisses on his forehead until he laughed.

 

“Dammit I can do this!” she'd said as he left her behind.

“I know you can,” he'd answered calmly.

And it took everything not to be angry. How _dare_ he leave her again.

“No matter what happens here today,” he said, and those perfect blue eyes were boring in to her soul, like he was trying to burn the image of her in to his brain, “I'll always love you.”

“Shepard, I-” but he was already drawing back down the ramp and she wanted to scream _TAKE ME WITH YOU_ but instead she said “I love you, too.”  She reached for him even as she was being pulled away, and he was waving the Normandy off as he ran toward the beam, and hot angry tears ran down her face and she thought of all the things she was going to yell at him when she saw him again this time, because she _was_ going to see him again, she was.

Lying to herself was not something she was good at, though.  Word came back to the Normandy, the war was won, and there was no sign of Shepard's body and some took this as indication that he was still alive, somewhere, but she knew somehow, she knew.  And she was to blame.  She never should have let him go without her, if she'd only pushed him harder, he would have given in and they would have gone into the beam together and somehow she would have saved him, she knew it deep down. 

She went over the battle again and again in her head, thought of a million things she might have done differently, and it always ended with saving him somehow.  No one else could have done it, she was the last person there before he'd gone in to the beam, she could have _saved_ him if she had only tried harder.  She still went through the motions of life, but more often than not found herself at the bottom of a bottle of tequila and writing more letters to Shepard while sprawled on the floor, alternating between angry accusations and tear soaked apologies until she passed out, and then in the small hours of the morning was scooped up by a surprisingly gentle James Vega and put to bed.

In the following years, she moved on, at least that's how it looked on the outside.  She carried out her Spectre duties, went to family gatherings, attended memorials and ceremonies that all seemed to blur together.  She woke up in bed with Vega so many times, but he never questioned her salt-soaked pillow or the drawer full of scribbled notes by the bed, and so when he eventually proposed she accepted. And he did make her happier, happier than she had been in a long time.  She loved him.  He loved her.

But she never really felt beautiful again.


End file.
